


Smoke signals

by WaterFowl



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Lee/Angst, Lee/Dee - Freeform, Pre-Relationship, Romance, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-18
Updated: 2010-11-18
Packaged: 2017-10-13 06:36:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaterFowl/pseuds/WaterFowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last thing Lee needed as of Resurrection ship battle was to be falling in love, yet tended to arrange his work-out schedule in sync with the self-defense class. Set on the outer rim of 'Scar' season 2 , though not focused on the episode per se.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke signals

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: The last thing Lee needed as of 'Resurrection ship' arc, was to be falling in love… Still fascinated with elaborating a plausible narrative transition from Lee Adama's and Dee's 'break-up' in 'Black Market' (season 2) and into them eventually working toward a relationship in 'Sacrifice' and on. Besides, Lee Adama lurking in the gym by the end of 'Black Market' just got me wondering.
> 
> Set on the outer rim of 'Scar', though not focused on the episode per se.
> 
> Disclaimer: None of the characters, plot-points, inherent to the show, belong to me. No infringement with the namesake movie is intended.

**Smoke signals**

The last thing he needed for the time being was to be falling in love. The Pegasus crew – a hideous bunch of assorted kinds of creepy, his father all but initiating a shooting war with their own people, conspiring with the President and Starbuck in tow to carry out a military coup by assassination, the last thing he needed was to feel right. Or good. Or alive, for that matter. Keeping in mind his notorious record of frakking up whenever that happened, made fleeing the other way, as soon as the sensation lingered long enough to register, seem all the more natural. The last thing he needed was to drag anyone into obscure waters he was floating still. Anyone, who wasn't there already, at least.

Kara could've appeared no stranger to the darkness enough to keep him adequate company, but her shadows proved to be of a different brand the other time, nourished and haunted by different ghosts, thus failing dramatically either to indulge or to match his own. Hence on he went, faring farther on his own into voluntary oblivion. Or so he hoped, anyway.

***

He was half aware of the hustling activity on the sparring mat, while attacking the punch-bag with a vengeance in what seemed like his favorite nook of the gym lately. Scar's progressively fierce attacks, Starbuck and Kat butting heads nearly on the hourly basis by then, took their toll, demanding release. Let alone he was lagging behind on exercise due to a most recent trip to the med-bay the clash with black market underworld earned him. Why he would recurrently tend to arrange his work-out schedule in time with the self-defense class, he used to instruct, was not particularly welcome into the conscious realm of his mind.

The sound of an abrupt painful yelp made him wince and discard the punch-bag rapidly for the preferred destination of the obviously disturbed instructees, circling the site. Sure enough, there Dee was, cringing visibly, being helped up quite awkwardly by a Marine sergeant, who took over leading defense classes upon Lee's alleged resignation after the Blackbird incident.

It took him a swift instance to spot the wrist clutched cautiously to her chest, as she struggled to fight tears while assuring the onlookers and instructor alike to be 'fine' and making a tad too hasty retreat to the locker room. He hoped his stare, focused on the distraught Marine, appeared ominous enough for the hapless guy to catch the message he just got himself in a whole world of trouble.

Deferred by a stop at the showers to soak a towel in cold water, he found her waging a losing battle with boot straps, escaping the shaky grip of her good hand. The other one, wrist notably swollen by then, was plopped limply on her lap. Furious determination, transcribed in the way her lips were pursed and her eyes sparkled with tears, denied free exit, nearly brought him to smile. At times he caught himself thinking there was more still about her for him to find likable, than he cared to admit.

Pending issue at hand, though, he covered the distance between them, kneeling to wrap her hand with the cooling cloth in precise, fluid motion. Pretending to ignore her inquisitive, if grateful look, he took to the abandoned task of pulling her straps without as much as a further comment. Before she could utter a sound he pinned her down with his best imitation of Admiral Adama's glare to warn against any remarks concerning holding her hand. Much to his astonishment, it worked. She complied silently, as he drew her off the bench by the firm clasp on the arm and handed the sweatshirt, motioning them both to the med-bay.

Keeping up with his stride nearly brought her to stumble a couple times, on their journey, before he took the hint and slowed down. He couldn't bet whether it was the need to get those x-rays, eliminating bone fracture, done and out of the way, the awareness that he was due coordinating CAPs with Starbuck in about less than an hour, or left-over adrenaline, propelling him forward.

Enduring Doc. Cottle's suspicious gaze had never been a particularly joyful experience. Enduring her accusatory glare, to boot, as he reported her injury to be acquired at the self-defense class, as opposed to overdoing push-ups, added a whole new dimension to the concept of being scorched. He couldn't give the slightest damn at the moment, however, if she would consider him a poor sport or downright evil. He could use Cottle's explicit prohibition to make sure she didn't get anywhere near that gorilla of a Marine anytime soon.

It never quite occurred to him to leave, once she was shepherded behind the examination curtain.

***

Dee was the first to break increasingly tense silence, as he escorted her out of the med-bay half an hour later, proved to have been sprained hand complete with an immobilizing bandage.

\- I believe I can find my way back to the locker room from here, sir. No particular need for a guard of honor.

He gave her a weary look, motioning to the heavy, borderline rusty rotating handle on the nearest hatch with a shrug:

\- Figured your bum wrist might need some assistance with the doors on the way.

Several hallways down, since he retreated into speechless brooding, he could hear her voice stir again, devoid of attempted scorn that time:

\- Is it just me, sir, or are you mad at something? – Dee lagged behind half a step and regarded him with that peculiar expression she had, which never failed to instill a perturbing feeling, no matter what he said out loud or kept to himself, she was reading right within his mind anyway. She'd employ it outside of the triad table a good deal lately, when talking to him. _If_ talking to him, that is.

\- It's just you. And I've already told you don't need the 'sir'. – All of a sudden, he felt thoroughly fascinated with a crack on the floor.

He couldn't quite place where unbidden exasperation stemmed from. There was nothing out of the ordinary in what he was doing. Nothing he wouldn't do for any of the pilots under his command – Racetrack, Kat, Hot Dog. Okay, maybe he wouldn't very well bother endowing Hot Dog with all the fuss, but it was definitely not the length he wouldn't go for Starbuck. That's what friends are all about, right? He was friends with Dee too, sort of, so…

What he couldn't recall craving to do for anyone else, however, was punching the living Hades out of the self-defense instructor. For daring to hurt, even if inadvertently. Though, truth be told, he could very much live without witnessing the Marine sergeant grope her all over, as well, class or no class. But that was hardly his issue to fret about, he assiduously kept reminding himself. Which incidentally did amazingly little to ease his frustration.

In all honesty, he was decidedly angry with her. She took the prompt to leave his Wallowing Majesty the frak alone, fair enough, but not in the most wayward least should it have been tantamount to going and getting herself mutilated like that. He wondered further, if he ought to, probably, schedule an appointment with that Marine sergeant to have the living Hades kicked out of his own self, instead.

Soft swish of air past his torso indicated he'd missed Dee commence moving towards the shortcut pathway and urged to finally lift his gaze up. She stopped by the locked hatchway, making a show of cradling her bandaged hand with the good one, all the while glancing over at him with teasing anticipation, veiling patented insightful acknowledgement that drove him instantly conscious of his obviously protracted reverie. He could all but vaguely recall ever being that engrossed into mental babbling around a girl either. Gods, that was the last thing he needed…


End file.
